


Safe Amongst the Dead

by spreadward



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychological Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spreadward/pseuds/spreadward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mud Grave Au Ed is the last survivor in the German trenches, but survival is harsh and unforgiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Amongst the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> For Berg's Mud Grave Au. Please review!

There is frost in his lungs, making each breath burn deep in his chest. He takes each breath slowly, concentrating on keeping the frigid air from bubbling deep down and sending him into a fit of coughs. Sickness in the trenches is rampant, and Edward is not spared the blight that has infected so many of his comrades. 

The only solace given to him by this blight is that he is exempt from the sickeningly sweet stench of decay that permeates the air, too heavy to rise above the lips of the carved out gorge that had been his hell since the war began. The smell of death, of his friends, his colleagues, his enemies and now even his lover all added to the thick musk of death surrounding him. 

The silence is deafening and he almost misses the barrage of gunfire that had suddenly ceased. At least then he had been spared the ghosts of his trench mates whispering in his ears, taunting him for continuing to survive when death is a welcome end to the hell that surrounds him. 

He bundles his filthy, blood crusted uniform around his emaciated body, shivers as the still air sinks deeper into his bones. The ground is too wet for a fire, and even if it weren’t, the deep seated instinct to survive screams that a fire would alert the enemy to his location, would snuff all his chances of getting out if here. 

In his frost bitten fingers he clutches a photo, worn, creased and faded of his wife , patiently waiting for him to come home. His desire to be in her arms is dwarfed by his guilt at betraying her with another friendly face. A face he trusted from back home, whose blood he now carried on the front of his uniform and stained on his fingers. 

He closes his eyes, opens them moments later. Behind his eyelids all he can see is Roy’s lifeless body slouched against the earthen walls of the trench, his blood and brains blackening the dirt around his body. 

He feels the urge to vomit at the thought, forces his eyes back on the photograph and wills his stomach to settle, even though he can hear Roy in his ear, calling his name. If he can just focus on anything but that, he thinks he’ll be okay. 

A loud crunch of a footstep from above alerts him to the presence of another, and his fear peaks wildly, forces his legs into motion, forces them to move forward despite being locked up from the cold and exhaustion. 

“Je pense que je l’entends quelque chose ici!”

A panic swells in him, his heart pumps madly as he crawls forward, ignores the protest of his cracking skin as his fingers claw at the dirt, each movement excruciating. His lungs rebel against him, and he feels the urge to cough, but knowing that coughing means death, he holds it in, feels his chest burn as he reaches the pile of bodies of his friends.

They’re all around him, the corpses that once housed souls he had laughed with, eaten with, cried with, and one that he had been closer with than the rest. While hiding amongst them, his chest on fire, threatening to burst out and alert his existence to the world, and the haunted echoes of voices that once comforted him, he only had one thought. ‘At least it’s warmer here…’


End file.
